Stress
by Iluvbeyblade
Summary: An unexpected detour on their way home brings Barthez Battalions into contact with 'that team we beat in the European Championships' Tempers flare, flirtation runs rife and secrets left to rot are revealed.
1. Chapter 1

Set directly after Barthez Battalions lost their round of the Championships.

* * *

Mathilda stared at the plastic floor in front of her without seeing it. The noise of the bustling airport washed over her, forming a constant background thrum to the grief swirling inside her head.

"Tilly? Tilly!" Mathilda blushed furiously as she blinked and focused on Miguel's concerned sapphire blue eyes. "You okay?" he asked gently. She forced a smile.

"I'm okay, don't worry about me." Miguel nodded distractedly and looked away, searching for the time of their aeroplane flight. A dark hand rested on her arm and Mathilda blinked up at Aaron.

"You can't be okay, Tils," he chided. "No one's expecting you to be okay. You've just lost your bit-beast. You're allowed to not be ok." She smiled shakily, tears welling up involuntarily.

"Thanks, Aaron." she whispered. Claude punched Aaron playfully on the arm.

"Yes, ol' chocolate drop's always right, huh?" Aaron grinned, the racist slur sliding off him as Claude had intended. He whacked the white-skinned boy back.

"Dead right, you albino!" he shot back jokingly. Claude gasped in mock-outrage.

"I'm not an albino!"

"Fine then, sun-bleached zombie, that better?" The two boys continued to tease and insult each other until Miguel snapped at them to stop it; he was trying to concentrate. They sniggered and saluted mockingly, but went quiet. Mathilda sat on the hard, narrow bench and stared back at the floor, fighting to keep the tears inside her.

Three hours later, the last, frayed strand of Miguel's temper snapped and he stormed up to a staff member demanding why their flight was _still _delayed. He was told in fractured, indistinct English that flight 104 to Italy would be delayed for another two days. He returned to his team muttering angrily, a vein visibly pulsing in his forehead.

"Stupid Egyptian aeroplanes!" he yelled suddenly, before launching into a tirade of foul Spanish. Claude cursed under his breath and started trying to calm the enraged Spaniard down, to little success. A derisive laugh stopped all four of them in their tracks.

"And people say _I_ have anger issues?" The three boys swung around to glare at the speaker, a lean, redheaded seventeen year-old who returned their glares with one of his own. "What? Truth hurts?" he smirked. Aaron's dark eyes flashed black with irritation and his cracked his knuckles menacingly.

"No, but something else might…" he muttered threateningly.

"Johnny, what have you got yourself into _this _time?" a somewhat condescending voice demanded with a weary sigh. The redheaded boy's expression turned sullen, like a child caught being naughty by its parents and Mathilda couldn't resist a faint giggle. He glared at her, seemingly noticing her for the first time. She shrank back, wary. Quickly, she looked at the owner of the voice that had stopped Johnny in his tracks.

A man stared back at her and the rest of her team, his gaze steady and not unfriendly. His hair was vivid purple and gelled back into almost a helmet shape, a comic contrast to his pale face and hooked nose. Next to him stood a flamboyantly dressed blond-haired boy who looked about seventeen or eighteen and was surveying her and her alone with the greatest of interest. She blushed violently and lowered her gaze.

The man and Miguel both opened their mouths to speak at the same time. After much polite gesturing, Miguel continued.

"You're that team we beat in the European tournament, aren't you?" he asked, with a hint of aggression in his usually calm voice.

"Oh wow, give the kid a medal, and I'll tell him where to shov-" The blond-haired boy clapped a hand over Johnny's mouth and smiled widely at Miguel.

"Sorry about him." Miguel shrugged stiffly.

"So, what do you want?" he demanded. A purple eyebrow rose and the man's face took on an expression of faint incredulity.

"Want? We simply came over here to prevent an embarrassing ruckus in a public place. Johnny is so hot-headed." He sighed and shook his head. There was a cry of pain from the blond, and Johnny was audible again.

"Why are you being so _nice_ to them, Robert? They're nothing more than slimy little cheats!"

"We're not any more!" Mathilda retorted with a flash of temper. She shrank back as everyone turned to stare at her. "We're _not_!" she repeated bravely, biting fiercely on her lower lip to stop tears of pure embarrassment from forcing their way out. Johnny looked uncomfortable and shuffled his feet.

"Well, you were!" he continued hotly at last. "We would have got so much farther then you lot did!" The atmosphere, which had been gradually cooling, heated up again and both Aaron and Miguel took a step forward, their fists clenched.

"Is that you shooting your mouth off again, Johnny?" A newcomer appeared. Now that she knew vaguely who they all were, Mathilda found herself recognising this one from the aforementioned European tournament. He - she was pretty sure they were a he - was very slight of build, with bright green hair cut in a style not unlike her own. His dress code seemed to involve a lot of blue, and a lot of ribbons.

"Are you a girl or a fag?" Aaron sneered, his coal-black eyes flashing brightly. Mathilda rolled her eyes in disbelief at how stupid Aaron was when his temper was roused.

"We're a bit new to each other to be asking personal questions, aren't we?" asked the newcomer with no sign of feeling offended. "For what it's worth, I'm definitely not a girl. Now then, it looks like Johnny's managed to get everyone off on the wrong foot. Again. So, a fresh start! I'm Oliver, this is Enrique, the flirt-addict," he indicated the blond-haired boy, who waved and winked at Mathilda. She let out an annoyed, embarrassed sigh as she felt her face heat up yet again, "That's Robert, and of course, Johnny makes his own introductions." Aaron and Enrique sniggered in unison and shot each other surprised looks.

"What are you all doing here?" Robert asked.

"Delayed flight. By two stinking days!" Mathilda looked worriedly up at her once-again fuming leader. Why was he so short-tempered all of a sudden?

"Where were you going?" Enrique inquired.

"Italy." Enrique's face lit up.

"Oh, _L'Italia, ti amo_…" he sang.

"You're Italian?" Aaron grinned. "Cool." Enrique nodded.

"Yup. A proud citizen of Italy, that's me! If you really want to get back there as quickly as your friend's temper suggests, I could help…" He trailed off, a wicked glint in his blue eyes.

"How?" Claude asked, puzzled. Enrique smirked.

"Let's say I have my own way of avoiding Customs!"

"Why would you want to avoid Customs?" Mathilda asked curiously. Robert gave a disapproving sigh.

"Ignore him. His grandfather had dealings with the Mafia at one point, and he likes to think it gives him status." Enrique scowled and glared at the man, who smiled thinly.

"Shut up, Robert!"

Mathilda giggled and blushed for what felt like the hundredth time.

"Stupid face…" she mumbled, biting her lip as she saw Johnny giving her an odd look.

"So, what's this plan for getting us out of here as soon as possible?" Aaron asked, only partly joking. Enrique's grin spread and became decidedly self-satisfied.

"My baby!" he declared, clutching at his heart and spinning around dramatically. Mathilda let out a peal of laughter.

"In other words, he has a private jet that he treasures more than anything and everything except that two-headed lizard bit-beast of his." Johnny translated, sticking out a foot and almost tripping Enrique up. The two elder teenagers glared hotly at one another and for a few seconds it almost looked as though they were going to fight.

"Cool it, you two!" Oliver laughed. "Robert, I think it's about time you took control?" With a nod, Robert began to shepherd the seven teens away. The former Barthez Battalions watched in bemusement as they were led to the most enormous plane that any of them had ever seen before.

"Wow…" Mathilda breathed. Next to her, Johnny snorted.

"It's not _that _impressive," he muttered.

"I suppose you're used to it, huh?" Mathilda asked shyly. Johnny's chest swelled instantly.

"Yeah, course. Mine's even better!" he declared proudly.

"Of course it is, Johnny, of _course_ it is." Enrique said patronisingly. "You do realise that they don't have big enough green spaces in Glasgow for a jewel like this? Where do you store it? In your bloated ego?"

"Shut it, Enrique!"

"And this is only a jet, if you somehow got hold of my blimp - ha! There isn't anywhere flat enough in the whole of your cold, rainy country!" Mathilda laughed softly at the two boys' constant bickering as they headed toward the gigantic plane. She became aware of someone else walking next to her, turned, and smiled up into Claude's gentle face.

"Hey, Matti." He smiled at her and nodded toward the sleek jet that loomed closer with every step they took. "Quite a monster, that!"

"Yep, it's massive!" she agreed. Claude shot a look over his shoulder and frowned. "What is it?" she asked, instantly worried.

"Probably nothing, Matti. It's just… has Miguel been acting a bit strange today, or is it just me?" Mathilda shook her head.

"No, I noticed too. He's really snappy, isn't he?" Claude nodded. "What do you think's up with him?" The silver-haired boy shrugged one shoulder.

"Your guess is as good as mine. Angry at himself for being the reason we lost? Worried in case Barthez decides he isn't finished with us?"

"Ooh, we're at the plane!" Mathilda squeaked.

She stared up … and up. "Wow…"

"Amazing," Claude approved.

"You like?" Enrique inquired happily, looking over his shoulder at the four awe-struck bladers.

"Yeah, do we ever!" Aaron enthused. A sour look flashed over Johnny's face, unnoticed by anyone except Mathilda. Puzzled, she stared at him, trying to figure why he was suddenly in such a foul mood. He caught her eye.

"What are you looking at?" he muttered venomously, just loud enough for her to hear. A spark of anger rose inside her.

"I'm not sure. What _am_ I looking at?" she retorted. Taken aback, he stared blankly at her for a few seconds, then a smile spread across his face and he nodded approvingly.

"You've got spunk." he said loudly, turning and beginning to ascend the stairs into the aeroplane. Blushing furiously under the bemused stares of the six males around her, she followed Johnny up.

"Miguel!" Aaron's cry of alarm ripped through the air and Mathilda spun around. Miguel was down on his knees, both hands pressed to his face as if he was trying to stop his skull from splitting open. In two leaping steps she was back on the ground and dashing over to her leader. Mumbling apologies as she pushed Robert and Claude out of the way, she knelt down next to Miguel.

"Miguel? What's wrong?" she whispered uncertainly. Miguel remained silent, clearly in too much pain to talk. Mathilda's head whipped to one side as she felt someone place a hand on her arm and move her away slightly.

"Excuse me, miss." Robert said courteously. He motioned Oliver forwards. The slender young man knelt down and began talking softly to Miguel. Eventually, the blond blader recovered to spit out a single word.

"Headache." Instantly, Robert snapped into action. After ascertaining that Miguel was incapable of moving, let alone walking, he reached into the pocket of his trousers and produced a mobile phone. Flipping it open, he pressed a single button and proceeded to have a low, intense conversation with whoever had answered in what sounded to Mathilda's inexperienced ears like complete gobbledegook, but Claude informed her in a whisper that it was German. Finishing with a barked command, Robert closed the phone and slipped it back in his pocket.

"Enrique, how fast can that monstrosity go?" he demanded.

"Max speed 700 miles per hour, but it can only do about 650 without blowing the engine up." Enrique answered laconically. Robert nodded in approval.

"Is Miguel going to be okay?" Mathilda burst out at last, voicing the thoughts that she knew were buzzing around in her team mates' heads as well. Robert gave her a small smile.

"He should be fine. It seems to be merely a severe stress headache." Everyone relaxed fractionally. Mathilda crouched down next to her team captain and pulled him into a gentle hug.

They all filed onto the plane, having waited ten minutes for Miguel to recover enough to be able to walk. Mathilda walked in front of him, turning around every few seconds to check and ask him how he felt, while Oliver walked behind, a supporting hand on his back.

Mathilda sat down, instantly pressing her nose to the window and letting out a soft sigh of amazement.

"We're so high up…" she whispered. Claude and Aaron, sitting behind her, nodded slowly, both equally glued to the window. Mathilda's head spun around as she felt somebody sit in the seat next to her. Johnny stared back at her, uncertainty hidden under a thin layer of bravado.

"Can I sit here?" he asked at last, breaking their locked stares. Mathilda blushed furiously.

"Okay," she murmured.

"Fasten your seatbelts, take-off is in two minutes." Mathilda quickly fastened her seatbelt, and cast a curious look at Johnny, who hadn't done as commanded.

"Shouldn't you put your seatbelt on?" she asked timidly. He shrugged, smirking.

"No point until it's actually taken off."

Two minutes later, over the intercom:

"Jonathon Donald McGregor, kindly put your seatbelt on." Colouring as Mathilda giggled softly, Johnny fastened the seatbelt with a little more force then was necessary.

The plane started its slow rumble down the runway.

* * *

This is a very old file - I think it's about two years old, actually, so if there's a slight difference to my normal quality that explains it. I just found it again and remembered the plot. It shouldn't be a long fic; I've already thought out most of it!

Review?


	2. Chapter 2

A massive thank-you to **Beywriter**, **AzikaRue394**, **.Queen. Violet.**, **alanacrystal** and **Lamanth** for your reviews!

See? See? I updated something! (bounces)

* * *

_"No, Pierce Hedgehog!" Her voice boomed in her ears then faded to nothing, following the steady retreat of her bit-beast into a kaleidoscope of colours that spun around her and mocked her cowardice with first Barthez's voice then Miguel's. _

_Guilt was purple, she realised. Fear was red. _

_Tears rolled down her face as she stretched out a hand for her lost bit-beast. Her arm stretched and stretched out into the distance but found only more colours._

"Tilly! Tils, wake up, you sleepyhead. We're here!" Waking up with a jolt as Aaron shook her shoulder, Mathilda slapped his hand away. The dream faded with frustrating speed, leaving her feeling vaguely sick and upset.

"Stop being annoying!" she complained around a shuddering yawn, rubbing her eyes and trying to swim up to full consciousness enough to stand. Managing it on the third try, she grabbed her hand luggage and followed Aaron out of the stationary plane into the Italian sunshine and down the steps onto what looked like a private airfield, stumbling along at the end of the disorderly queue of boys to wait for their luggage to be unloaded from the hold.

Miguel, she saw with relief, was standing unaided. Although alarmingly pale, he seemed pain-free and looked to be deeply involved in a conversation with Robert and Oliver. As though sensing her gaze he met her eye, smiled at her then made inaudible excuses and walked over.

"Tilly, you ok?"

She returned his wide, fake smile with one of her own.

"I should be asking you that! You're still so white!"

Miguel shrugged, running a hand over his face as if checking for a temperature.

"I'm fine, honestly. Everything suddenly sunk in, that's all. You know, stress and stuff. I had a nap and Oliver gave me some painkillers and – I'm just tired now. Really."

"Me too." Suddenly Mathilda didn't feel like speaking anymore. Silence fell and she went back to staring at the floor, hands shoved in her pockets, the idea of _colours_ twitching at the back of her blank thoughts. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Miguel give her one last look then walk back to Robert and Oliver.

Grief burrowed itself a grey pit in her chest. Like a hedge – no, like a … a puffer fish, it unsheathed its spines whenever she thought the name of her bit-beast as a physical pain that made her flinch. So she tried not to think about him, tried thinking of other things. Everything led back to him in the end; so then she thought of nothing and that seemed to work.

Time passed, she wasn't certain how much. In her lucid moments, she wondered whether she was dozing with her eyes open.

"Hey, you ok?" Pulled back to reality, she saw Johnny stood a little way from her (Respecting her personal space, she wondered? He hadn't seemed the type for that), an uncomfortable expression on his face.

"Fine," she said determinedly. Dismayed to find tear trails drying on her cheeks, she scrubbed them away with her cold fingers and bared her teeth at him in an attempt at a smile that fell frighteningly flat. "Honestly. Fine." He gave her a look of scorching disbelief that sent warm ripples through the lump of stone that had previously been her stomach.

"You know best, I suppose. Well, come on then, we're going." He gestured

"Going where?"

He let out a loud sigh.

"Back to Enrique's, of course! You lot aren't in a state to go anywhere – or so Robert says," he added hurriedly as Mathilda's face turned pink with sudden temper. "You're not!" he protested. Mathilda couldn't help a wobbly laugh at his petulant tone.

"Aaron and Claude would be fine," she pointed out eventually, unsubtly skipping around her admission of weakness. With a wry grin that showed he hadn't missed her capitulation, Johnny shrugged. His eyes were focused on a point just behind her. Quickly, she spun around but not quickly enough. A dark hand clamped over her mouth and Aaron shook her gently.

"As if we'd leave you alone!" he said reproachfully. Mathilda smiled at his comment – she had forgotten his penchant for eavesdropping - and tried to pull away from his grip. Finding it unyielding, panic rose as a rush of acid bile in her throat. Swallowing, trying not to gag, her disbelief warred with adrenalin. It was a typical Aaron game! Why was she overreacting like such an idiot?

"Get off her!" Just as Aaron felt her gasping for breath and loosened his grip, Johnny bulldozed into him, knocking him off balance.

"Idiots!" Mathilda yelled, shaking her head as she dodged out of harm's way. The two boys crashed to the floor, thoroughly embroiled in what appeared to be an all-out wrestling match.

"_Mien Gott_!"

Mathilda turned at the sound of the unfamiliar voice behind her and relaxed slightly as she realised it was Robert, staring at the scrapping teenagers with distaste. "What are you _doing_, Johnny, do you have no self-control whatsoever?"

"Shut up!" Johnny panted. At the sound of Robert's voice, the fight had come to an abrupt halt and the boys now sat only a foot or so apart on the dusty ground, breathing heavily and looking at each other with wary approval. "We were just … getting acquainted."

*****

Mathilda had gone past the stage of needing to sleep and was now living off adrenalin. This resulted in the hour coach ride to "Enrique's" feeling like the most boring time of her entire life. Thankfully, there was plenty to occupy her wandering attention – interesting little observations like:

'Ha, Aaron's getting a black eye!'

'This country has no grass, I swear.'

'Aw, Claude's asleep!'

'Johnny's reading … wait, wait, Johnny's reading a book on chess!?'

She leaned forwards and poked Johnny through the gap between the seats.

"Why're you reading that?"

Johnny jumped and half-covered the title with his hand before realising it was futile. Mathilda watched with amusement as his face started to go red at an astonishing rate.

"I play sometimes. Just against Robert, it's not a hobby or anything."

"Are you good?" she asked, undoing her seatbelt and wriggling around in her seat to get her legs under her. Once she had, she knelt up and grinned at Johnny over the top of the seat. He gave her an awkward grin in return.

"Pretty good."

"Don't you believe him, darling!" Enrique called from two seats behind. "He's never beaten Robert yet!" Mathilda dissolved into uncontrollable giggles as Johnny got up with intent to murder painted blackly on his face. Reaching Enrique's seat, he promptly got the younger boy in a headlock.

"Oh, Enrico, _bambino_," he tightened his grip, "utter git, if you don't keep that fat mouth to yourself …" He trailed off in what was clearly supposed to be a threatening manner. Enrique merely rolled his eyes and complained,

"Johnny, your Italian accent really is terrible."

"You're terrible _anyway_." Grumpily, Johnny let go and trudged away. Mathilda was amazed to find that he was smiling with satisfaction as he slumped back into his seat.

"Why so happy?"

"I just got the stupid snob twice." He laughed. "His actual name is Enrico, which he hates – Enrique's Spanish, you see – and _bambino_ is child or baby in Italian; because he's younger than me and likes to forget that too."

Casting a quick look behind her, Mathilda saw that Enrique's usually mischievous expression was sullen. Catching her eye, he winked and smiled but she could see his heart wasn't in it.

"That's mean!" she chided. He shrugged, unrepentant.

"He's used to it."

"That doesn't mean it's right!" Her voice took on a familiar hectoring tone, developed from months of being on Barthez Battalion and a lifetime of being the only girl in a family of six.

"We're here!" Johnny pointedly ignored her, staring out of the window. Mathilda did the same and saw a sprawling mansion of beige brick at the end of a long driveway that their coach was just starting to drive up.

"Wow …" she breathed. Enrique beamed in response and Johnny's temper soured again.

* * *

Well, what do you think? It's even shorter than the last one, but ... never mind, hey? Waffle isn't my strong point.

Ooh, ooh, a question. Do you think I should put Humour as a sub-category for this when I next update?

Review?

xIlbx


	3. Chapter 3

A big thank you to **Beywriter**, **alanacrystal**, **Demolition-Girl-33236**, **shadowphoenix101**, **blitzkreig50889** and **Yoko Fujioko** for your reviews!

So, um, hi. You might want to reread the previous chapter, or possibl first one too, just to remind yourself. Two-year gap. Wow. Many many thanks to **Yoko Fujioko **for reminding me about this. My apologies for any formatting screw-ups, I blame the site.

Enjoy!

* * *

Strutting noticeably, Enrique walked the last few metres of the driveway (it had taken the coach a further seven minutes to reach this point) and spoke into the intercom that was attached to the bars of an imposingly spiky gate.

"Piddlesworth!" he called imperiously. "We have guests!"

"Yes, Signore Enrique."

Mathilda missed the stately mechanical swing of the gates as they opened, missed Enrique tripping over his own feet (he was trying so hard to see the Battalions' reactions that he failed to see quite a large stone) and even missed Johnny flipping him the finger with a wide grin, so convulsed was she by unstoppable laughter at the name 'Piddlesworth'.

Still breathing raggedly and wiping away tears of laughter as they got off the coach, she caught Aaron's eye. He mouthed "Piddlesworth" and she spluttered out loud, her diaphragm vibrating painfully as she descended again into a laughing fit.

"Ow," she complained breathlessly once the spasm had passed, taking the opportunity to kick Aaron hard in the shin.

"Ouch!" he yelled and started hopping around, holding his leg and proclaiming Mathilda's cruelty to the group at large.

"Hen-pecked," Johnny said loudly as he walked past the playful pair; in return Aaron invited him to have sexual relations with a trunk handle.

"Speaking of luggage," Enrique threw Johnny's hand luggage at him and laughed as he stumbled backwards, "everybody, grab your bags and head inside."

"Don't you have servants to carry bags?" Claude asked with perfect sincerity. Enrique pulled a face.

"Normally yes, but they've all gone with Mamma and Papa to the Alps for two weeks. They leave me with a skeleton staff … something about not wanting to inflate my ego." He grinned broadly.

"No, they wouldn't want that, would they?" Oliver said amiably as he trundled past with Mathilda's suitcase. He winked at Mathilda, who smiled in response and reached for her suitcase. Oliver relinquished possession with another smile, jogging back to the coach to fetch someone else's. Telling Aaron and Claude to move their lazy bums and help him, Mathilda checked the dodgy wheel on the suitcase was facing the right way around and began to pull it through the tall gates, heading for the ornate double doors.

Once they were all inside – Miguel still looked so white! – Mathilda allowed herself to look around. They were standing in a long hallway that stretched away in both directions, the beautiful painted stone of the walls interrupted by numerous wooden doors. All were shut; how intriguing!

"Beppe, Cleto, Ailill … Akhil, you can help too!" The four servants appeared from the room three doors down and lined up smartly in front of Enrique. "Escort our guests and their luggage to their rooms, please."

"Will Signores Oliver, Robert and Johnathon be staying?" the dark-skinned man asked in slow but excellent English. Enrique frowned.

"Of course, Akhil, that's why they've got their stuff with them!" He waved his hands in the boys' direction. Mathilda saw Akhil hide a smile as he replied,

"My apologies, Signore Enrique." He caught Mathilda's eye and immediately headed towards her. "Come." He relived her of her case as he passed. Obediently, she followed, casting a look of mock-fear at the only person looking at her, Claude.

Two flights of stairs and a ridiculous number of turns later, Akhil flourished a key and inserted it into the lock of the last door before (yet another) flight of steps.

"Your room, Signorina …"

"Jez, Mathilda Jez, call me Mathilda, please? I'm not used to this sort of thing." She felt heat spread over her cheeks, even more so when Akhil laughed politely and said,

"Few are, Mathilda." He pushed the door open and handed the suitcase and key to her. "I will leave you to get ready. Your friends will be on this floor also." Mathilda thanked him and walked into her room, shutting the door behind her.

"Wow," she whispered, staring around. "You could fit my _house_ into this place."

It wasn't just the size of the room that impressed her, but the height. A wonderfully ornate ceiling soared far above her head, making her feel slightly dizzy as she tried to make out the carvings and paintings. It seemed like the sort of room that should be smothered in tapestries, panelling and heavy burgundy drapes, but instead the walls were painted beige and light pink, with an insanely soft matching beige carpet. The double bed pressed up against the east wall had a pink cover. Even the door to the ensuite bathroom had a floral doorknob.

So, definitely the girl's room, then. She chuckled at the thought. It was lucky that she was a femme sort of girl - a tomboy would probably have to wreak wholesale destruction before they could settle in. But no, she was a girly-girl, and she _loved _it. Humming to herself, she heaved her luggage up onto the bed and set about unpacking a set of clothes. She knew their stay would last a night, though not how much longer after that, and she didn't want to waste the pretty chest of drawers and wardrobe!

Some time later, a knock on the door made her jump. She had finished unpacking everything that she would need for one night and was debating unpacking some more. The clothes looked lonely.

"Yes?" she called, shutting the chest of drawers quickly.

"It's me, Tilly," said Aaron's voice, "just thought I'd tell you we're having dinner in fifteen minutes."

"_What_?" If Mathilda had been holding anything, she would have dropped it. "_Fifteen minutes_?" She wrenched open the suitcase again. "I need to shower, and get changed, and, Aaron, how much should I dress up? Aaron?"

She listened with frustration to the sound of Aaron chuckling as he walked away.

She waited with anticipation for the first course to arrive. She had chosen, in the end, to only dress up a little bit. White lacy dress with a pink necklace and her old black leather school shoes, the closest she had to smart shoes. The others had all smartened themselves up to varying degrees, the least of those being Miguel, who by the looks of things had spent his room-time asleep in the same clothes he'd worn before. To be honest, she was amazed and slightly worried to see him there.

"How are you feeling?" she asked, leaning forwards. For a second, her elbows touched the table, then she remembered her mother's old etiquette lessons and snatched them off with a blush.

"I'm ok, Tilly," Miguel replied in an annoyed voice. Taken aback by his tone, she returned to her previous seating position and exchanged a bewildered look with Aaron, who was sat next to her.

"No need to be so polite anyway," Johnny said with a grin, "we're hardly perfect."

Mathilda blushed at the realisation that Johnny had seen her little blunder.

"Says you," Oliver retorted with a laugh.

"Yeah, well, you French are weird about meals."

"I refuse to listen to you talk about food when your country thinks a sheep's stomach with mashed turnip is a delicacy, and invented the deep fried Mars Bar."

Even Johnny laughed at that, albeit reluctantly.

The starter arrived. Mathilda eyed it cautiously; balls that appeared to be made of breadcrumbs?

"I know," Johnny said through an already full mouth. "They look like Scotch eggs-"

"What're Scotch eggs?" Mathilda whispered to Aaron.

"Sausage meat covered in breadcrumbs, wrapped around egg," he replied. Johnny glared at them for interrupting, and finished,

"-but they're not, they're actually just full of cheese." He put another three in his mouth at once.

"_Arangini_," Enrique pointed out in a wounded voice.

"Cheesy balls," Johnny declared. "Don't complain, you know I think they're amazing."

"Yes," Oliver said in a voice quiet enough to sound as though he meant to whisper, "because they're deep-fried."

They were quite nice, Mathilda decided. It was a good job she liked cheese. Surreptitiously she glanced at Claude, who hated melted cheese. He was staring at his plate like it might bite him. Nibbling on the inside of her cheek to stop smiling at the sight, she returned to her meal.

Just as the main course was being served, Claude leaned forwards and asked,

"If you don't mind me saying so, you lot don't really fit your reputation."

"What's that, then?" Oliver asked distractedly, eyeing his plate with obvious glee. Claude squirmed.

"Well, you know. Harsh. Cold. Merciless. Hate teamwork. Hate each other."

The four of them exchanged meaningful looks. Johnny looked like he wanted to laugh.

"Say what you think, why don't you?" he said admiringly. Claude went scarlet.

"Certainly, some of that used to be true." Robert replied, coolly. "Thankfully, two years ago, Tyson and his friends managed to show us the benefits of a more united front and generous disposition."

"Tch, speak for yourself," Johnny snorted. He caught Mathilda's eye and grinned. "Actually, don't even do that - I _know_ you've still got booby traps set all over the place."

Mathilda couldn't suppress the urge to look around, and saw Claude doing the same.

"Not here," Johnny said impatiently, "in his castle in Germany. Tyson nearly got his head cut off when he was there."

"Yes, and then you and Kai nearly burnt us all alive," Enrique said with a laugh. Johnny huffed.

"That's a different matter. Anyway, you were hardly nice to them. You -"

Oliver shot him a fierce look, and Johnny's expression shifted.

"... Wouldn't even give him a battle at first!"

Enrique shrugged.

"Yeah, well. Thought they weren't worth my time."

Aaron couldn't stop a snigger and Mathilda found a smile. Enrique took it gracefully; "Hindsight's a wonderful thing, _caro_." He smiled at Mathilda, looking straight into her eyes. Despite herself, she went bright red. What did _caro_ mean, she wondered?

The meal progressed. The atmosphere began to sour. There didn't seem to be true harmony in this team, not when they kept bickering and exchanging heated looks every few minutes. Perhaps it was because they were confronted by their cheating usurpers and forced to help them - no, not forced. What was she thinking? No-one had even asked for their help, they had just jumped to the rescue like the world's motliest collection of superheroes. Why _had_ they helped? Samaritan complexes? God complexes? Or were they hoping to get something from them? They could have their title back, if that was it. Right now, the very thought of stepping back into an arena made her feel sick.

"What do you _want_?"

Ok. What had happened to the neurological process where iffy thoughts were carefully considered before being allowed access to the vocal cords?

Yet, the low murmur of agreement from the boys (her boys, that was ... wait, _her_ boys?) showed that, as impolite and hasty as the question had been, every one of them must have been thinking it to some extent or another.

It was hard to hold Robert's stare for long, but she tried her best, drawing her fingers back into tight fists under the table.

"Because you stopped cheating in the end," Johnny said with an awkward expression on his face and a forkful of food close to his mouth.

"Yeah, anyone who faces Kai knowing they're going to lose but doing it anyway has got guts," Enrique said, giving Miguel a nod and an admiring look. Miguel brushed it off with a thin-lipped smile. He had huge dark circles under his eyes. "Pity," Enrique continued maliciously, "that you don't have the strength of character to admit that, Johnny-boy."

"_Vaffanculo, _Enrico," Johnny snarled back, dropping his cutlery.

Kai again, Mathilda thought with distant interest. There's a Past there.

Fury flashed over Enrique's face like lightning, highlighting hard edges, a particular look that she hadn't seen before, but just as quickly as lightning it had passed. He replied in a carefully affable tone,

"I don't need to do that by myself. I could have many lovely ladies who would do that for me."

"Yeah, right." Ridicule aside, Johnny was already picking up his knife and fork; the heat had gone out of the argument almost as quickly as it had appeared. Everyone began to eat again in silence. Still an atmosphere.

"But _why_?" Mathilda asked again.

It was Oliver who answered this time. "You needed help, and we could give it. I don't know about the others-"

No, you wouldn't, pondered Mathilda even as she listened. I wouldn't know about Miguel and the others, either. Fine teams we make.

"- but I had some high-minded idea that in helping you, we'd show ourselves as better people."

"Is that so important?" Miguel asked in a cutting tone of voice.

"It is to some of us," Robert replied, looking down at his empty plate. He looked, Mathilda thought, very much as though he was deliberately stopping himself from looking up at one of his team.

Miguel was shaking his head, however.

"No. There was something in it for you." He frowned as he thought. "Did you think you could sell your stories to the newspapers, is that it?" Seemingly gripped by this idea, he made as if to stand before changing his mind and merely putting both fists in clear view on the table. "After all, we'd make a good front page for those shit-stirrers. Probably the editorials, commentaries and the letters written in, as well." His expression had too many bared teeth to count as a smile. "We're quite the sensation. All the ingenious ways we cheated. Nets, extra blades ..."

"Self-harm," Claude chipped in with a twisted little grin. Mathilda heard the self-hatred in his voice and her stomach began to hurt.

"Self-harm," Miguel acknowledged with another not-smile, "and let's not forget, a girl who murdered her own bit-beast."

The bottom dropped out of her stomach, taking all her insides with it and leaving an icy hole that yanked greedily on her ribs.

Murderer.

"Is that ..." She wasn't even sure what she wanted to say. Is that what they'll write about me? Is that what you think of me, Miguel? Her voice cracked before she had decided. Desperate not to cry in front of everyone, she pushed back her chair and stood. She tried not to breathe out, to hold the sob in her sore chest until she was alone, but the tears weren't as easy to suppress and one, two, three trailed dismally down her cheeks before she could try to do anything.

"Mathilda!" Aaron grabbed her hand in his big, warm hand and held it tightly. She tugged away, and with a look of hurt, he let go.

You didn't stop Miguel, she thought. Perhaps nastily so. Miguel wasn't himself yet, from the headache.

No. She swallowed and dashed the hand that Aaron had just let go (it was still warm) across the brimming tears. That was an excuse. She knew it. Maybe Miguel hadn't meant to put it quite like that, but in some way he believed it. And so did the others - none had been outraged, none had protested.

She spun away. A sob escaped, so tightly pressed that it sounded more like a hiccough. With mounting panic - she had to get away - she tried to remember the way back to her room. So she was standing there at the edge of the room looking stupid, and she could feel every single eye fixed on her -

A loud snap pushed her out of the descending path to hysteria, and through cottonwool-ears she heard Enrique call, "Akhil!"

The dark-skinned servant who had shown her to her room upon arrival appeared at her side and put a gentle hand on her arm.

"I shall direct you to your room, Mathilda," he said in a low voice. Not low enough;

"Akhil!" Enrique sounded taken aback. "That is not how you address guests! Please refer to her as Signorina ..." He paused for just a fraction too long; some of Mathilda distress translated into anger.

"See, you don't know what it is, while he does," she pointed out coldly. "It's Jez, by the way, Mathilda Kaja Jez. But I told him he could call me Mathilda." The words that wanted to emerge were "So there", but she bit them back. Childish.

The urge to dissolve completely had faded, but she couldn't be in this room a moment longer. Gladly, she let herself be steered away from the room of silent, staring males.

She waited until Akhil's footsteps had faded from earshot before crumpling onto the bed and hugging herself in a vain attempt to get warmer. At some point, she knew he must have got up and changed, because suddenly she wasn't in her lovely dress anymore. Just her plain pyjamas, which she's always complained looked like a prison uniform. Fitting, for a murderer. She supposed she cried herself to sleep, but she woke up again so, maybe it didn't matter. Cried some more. Stared at the ornate ceiling that had so fascinated her just hours before, and wondered bitterly what stroke of fate had decreed that her surname should mean 'hedgehog'.

* * *

So, angst! This needs to be recategorised, I think. Humour won't be the main focus, and I'm not even sure how much romance I want. Never mind, I'll have a think.

Piddlesworth, Enrique's butler-esque person, is actually canon.

Translations:

Signore/Signorina - Mr/Miss

caro - dear/darlng

Vaffanculo - I think this is made quite obvious, but it means fuck yourself. Ish.

All opinions welcome. :) Including simply berating me for my shit updating.

xIlbx


	4. Chapter 4

Thank you very much to **Lamanth**, **Yoko Fujioka** and **Olv1993** for your reviews! Also thank you to everyone who has read this so far, I hope you're enjoying it!

Most of the credit for this chapter goes to Lamb, who has basically given me all my ideas. xD But I've thrown a new one or two in here, and didn't put in a bit at the end because I couldn't get it to fit.

_

* * *

_

_"Commencing Operation Self-Destruct." _

_Goodbye, Pierce Hedgehog ... _

_"Three, two, one, detonate!"_

_A shattered blade. Pierce Hedgehog, apparently unharmed. But when she carefully put him in the blade they had made for her, his power came only in fits and starts. Raul defeated them - and she was pleased for him, but oh, _Pierce Hedgehog! _That match had been one last great effort; every time she tried after that, nothing happened. It was a shiny, painted bauble, an empty mask. A pretty grave marker. _

_And here came the colours again ..._

She jolted awake yet again, new tears mixing with the previous awakening's on her cheeks. It itched. She rubbed her face against the pillow. So, you think I'm a murderer now, Miguel? Inside she smiled bitterly. You told me my sacrifice would win us the tournament. Then you went all honourable, so we lost.

Why couldn't you have done that _earlier_?

Her hands tightened into fists under the luxurious bedcovers. Why? she asked herself through a fresh blur of tears. Why did it take _my_ sacrifice to make everyone realise what we were doing was wrong? Why _me_?

"Oh, Pierce Hedgehog, I'm so sorry," she whispered. _De ja vu_. She felt sure she'd said these words once before. "I'm so sorry that I let you down like this."

It took Mathilda nearly an hour to get up the following morning. She knew what it was like to have difficulty getting up because she hadn't slept enough, of _course_, and even the sticky ache in head and back and eyes that came from sleeping too much, but she hadn't really experienced before the cloying awfulness of skimming in and out of sleep, pinned down by leaden eyelids, time after time, until her head was dizzy and sore and she felt worse than when she'd first nodded off.

She had a cold shower. That helped a bit. Woke her up, at least. Her head was still throbbing unmercifully and her eyes and throat felt hot and swollen. She was sitting on the bed in her dressing-gown, thinking darkly how shabby it looked, how shabby _she _looked, compared to the rest of the room, when there was a loud knock on her door.

"Yes?" she called, and was ashamed to hear her voice crack and quiver.

"Um, Mathilda, it's just me, um, are you, ah, joining us for breakfast?"

After a few seconds of mental searching, she realised the voice belonged to Johnny.

"No thanks," she replied after clearing her throat. "I'm not hungry." Her stomach chose that moment to gurgle at full volume in protest. Johnny had almost certainly heard, because his reply sounded amused.

"Are you sure?"

A small smile tugged at Mathilda's lips, but she pressed them together and said nothing. She didn't _want _to see Miguel or the others. Call it selfish. They couldn't understand this. No-one could.

She was a murderer.

But now she'd been reminded of them, and she was spurred by the sound of Johnny's retreating footsteps to ask hurriedly,

"How_ is _Miguel?"

"His headache's still playing up," Johnny replied, walking closer to the door again. "According to him, everything's fine, but you don't look like that unless something's wrong."

Guilt bit at Mathilda's chest, but she shrugged it off. He could handle himself. They all could.

Can you handle yourself right now? her conscience pointed out. Wishing her sensible side would just turn off, she curled back up on the bed and listened to Johnny's fading footsteps.

Later, trying to scribble a little doodle in her sketchpad, she found that the pencil had migrated to her mouth for the sixth time in half as many minutes. She bit down hard on it in exasperation. Not_ that _as well. That would really help her feel on top of the world.

Another knock on the door. She thought something very rude, but sat up.

"What?"

"It's Oliver," he seemed unaffected by her snappishness, "would you like some breakfast?"

No, she thought rebelliously, but her stomach disagreed. Even more loudly than before. Oliver's ability as a chef was, if not worldwide, at least Europe-wide. Not something to be disregarded in her fit of pique, or melancholy, or whatever this was.

"Ok," she sighed.

Only when the doorknob had begun to turn did she remember that she was still only wearing her dressing gown and pyjamas. And her hair was a mess. And she hadn't washed her face.

Oliver was obviously going to be perfectly groomed, with envious hair.

Oh, she couldn't be bothered. Let him look at her askance. He'd be in good company there.

Still, she tugged her dressing gown tighter round herself as he backed in with a tray, leaving the door ajar.

Yes, his hair was amazing. Damn him.

"Morning, Mathilda!" he said cheerfully, and set to work. Before Mathilda quite knew what was happening, there was a hot tray sat on a cloth spread over her lap, with a covered dish on top. With a flourish, Oliver removed the dome, and she looked eagerly into the bowl to see -

"Porridge?" She looked up at Oliver curiously. He pulled a face.

"Yes. It wasn't my idea. If it had been, you would be looking at something much more visually appealing; a thin and crusty baguette, perhaps, delicately covered with some of my favourite homemade jam ..." His eyes were beginning to glitter. Mathilda giggled despite herself, which brought Oliver back to the real world. "But, it wasn't. It was, in fact, Johnny's idea. He thought that you might like to try it. He says it's what he always has when he's feeling upset."

"Oh. That was kind." She couldn't stop a small, grateful smile spreading across her face. Johnny was more perceptive than she had given him credit for. It was nice of him to make that special effort. Really nice. And nice of Oliver too, to make it and bring it up. Especially given who she was, and what she had done and had helped to do.

Her mood soured from its momentary uplift and she began eating in silence. Oliver didn't make a move to leave. Instead he walked over to the window behind her and stared out. Thankfully, he didn't attempt small talk. She might have been tempted to throw something at him, even taking his loveliness towards her into account.

She couldn't remember the last time she had eaten porridge. It was gorgeous. Just the right consistency, swirled through with something sweet and fruity that livened its bland taste. Halfway through the bowl, there was another knock on the door.

"Tils? Oliver?" Recognising Aaron's voice, Mathilda pulled her dressing gown even tighter around herself (Aaron was so bashful) and asked what he wanted. "I brought you some hot chocolate!" he declared.

What was it with people and trying to cheer her up with food? And why was it working? She was almost grinning as she told Aaron he could come in.

She didn't let him hug her, though. Awkwardly, he backed off and handed her the hot mug. Another silence fell. Oliver still hadn't said a word, though she had seen Aaron eyes flicker in that direction and figured there had been a Look exchanged. Predictably, Aaron started to babble;

"We knew you were upset and so Claude and I were trying to think of what to give you that would cheer you up, and then Miguel comes in and listens and says hot chocolate, and we were both amazed we hadn't remembered that before! And then I made it - I couldn't remember exactly how you liked it, but I think it's pretty close."

Mathilda was just raising the mug to her lips when there was a rustle of fabric and Oliver demanded in a harder voice than she had heard from him yet;

"Did you say you made it yourself?"

"Um, yes," Aaron replied nervously, unconsciously stepping towards Mathilda.

"What state did you leave the kitchen in?" Oliver's voice rose towards the end of the sentence, and Aaron's face flushed darkly. Mathilda watched with amusement as he scrabbled for something to get him off the hook. She had no doubt the kitchen was no longer up to the standards of Enrique's household, or Oliver's for that matter.

"Um, well, um, say, ok, so, I just saw Johnny stomping down the stairs a little while ago. He was all red and, and snappy. I wonder what happened."

Oliver sniffed in an unimpressed way, and shooed Aaron downstairs threateningly. Mathilda stared at her porridge thoughtfully. She might just know what Johnny had overheard. A faint blush pinked her cheeks.

"Would you like anything else?" Oliver's voice shook her from her thoughts.

"Y-No, thanks anyway."

No, she told herself firmly as Oliver smiled and hurried downstairs, probably to check on the kitchen. No, she did _not_ need anything else. Want was not need, and neither was habit.

Ten minutes later, she found she was sucking on her pencil again.

* * *

"Why are we _doing_ this?" Johnny demanded, sweeping into the kitchen in a foul mood. Oliver looked up from his mixing bowl and sighed.

"Why are we doing what? This? I'm making Claude and Mathilda some cookies."

Johnny scowled.

"No, no that - actually, yes, that, sort of."

"Your clarity amazes me," Oliver complained. Hearing a familiar noise, he lashed out with his whisk, catching Robert squarely on the back of the hand. "Stop it!" he commanded for the twelfth time. Robert was so unrepentant that he didn't even bother making eye contact, just grunting a vague apology around the spoonful of cookie mixture he had managed to steal. "Honestly." Oliver fought his rising irritation. "Anyone would think you weren't fed!"

"See, this is my point!" Johnny swung himself up to sit on the worktop. Oliver bit back a retort and gave Johnny an inquiring look. "We're still not a team. We might try these days, but we still can't stand each other. Well, apart from you and Enrique, but that doesn't count."

And why not? Oliver thought, but left that for later. There was obviously something weighing on Johnny's mind.

"Why are we _doing_ this?" Johnny repeated. "Ok, so Enrique's given the bunch of cheating bastards a place to stay until Miguel's headache or whatever it is clears up, I suppose I sort of get that. And even if I don't, well, it's happened. But what are _we_ doing here?"

Oliver twitched as Johnny pointed at him.

"Why are you making them _cookies_?" Johnny asked with a pleading note in his voice. "Why aren't we all at our own homes, doing our own things, completely unconcerned by a load of people who are nothing to do with us anyway?"

"You seemed pretty concerned about Mathilda this morning," Oliver pointed out, not realising that he was gesturing with his whisk until cookie mixture spattered the floor. Johnny looked at the floor and shifted uncomfortably. Oliver continued his explanation as he dabbed the mess away, just knowing that above his head, Robert would be taking such full advantage of his absence that he'd be lucky to have any left at all. "Personally, I know I'm welcome in the Giancarlo household, and I think it's really important that someone keeps an eye on Enrique's behaviour. Not that Enrique would behave _particularly_ inappropriately," he continued hastily, "but he would play around a little bit, flirt, just for fun. Just to ... see. I can think of at least three ways that could turn out with Mathilda's confused mindset at the moment and the way that boys are alternately protective and uneasy around her, none of which are good. I'll bet you can think of them too."

Johnny lowered his head even further and muttered something under his breath. Robert made an approving 'Mm' noise that - Oliver checked - was actually about what he'd just said as opposed to the cookie mixture.

"So if that satisfies you, Johnny, I'm here for selfish reasons more than altruistic. If Enrique gets himself into trouble accidentally, it'll reflect on me. I don't want that."

"Why are you here, then?" Johnny turned to Robert, who wiped his mouth with a handkerchief and replied,

"Because they needed help, and who else was going to give it to them?" He put the sticky spoon on the work top (Oliver eyed it and shuddered) and looked straight at Johnny. "There were only three other people booked on that flight they wanted to take."

"So?" Johnny looked confused. Oliver returned to mixing the cookie mixture. He had immediately understood what Robert was getting at, but he disagreed. He had to. It was so stupid.

"Don't be silly," he said, more harshly than he'd intended. Robert merely raised an eyebrow.

"I wouldn't have expected such cynicism from you. You're the one of us with the most experience of dealing with media backlash, aren't you?"

Oliver deliberately didn't look at Johnny. Instead he glared furiously at Robert - yes, ok, so he'd bounced up and down in the French media's esteem more than a kangaroo on a trampoline, but that wasn't _supposed_ to be well-known in the rest of Europe, especially not the main reason why. Ok, so he did nothing to quell the persistent rumours of his sexuality - but that was how he liked it, that constant "is he or isn't he?" debate that made him chuckle when he read it in magazines from_ Paris Match _to _Voici_.

He _didn't _like the stalking and the prying, and the blatant lying by boys he'd never had contact with. The threats, blackmail and bribery. No, he didn't like that at all.

"That's something different," he snapped at last, absentmindedly licking the whisk.

"Is it?"

A bang made Oliver break eye contact with Robert; Johnny had just slapped the worktop.

"What are you two talking about - no, scrap that, what are you two deliberately _not_ talking about?" He looked from one to the other, before Oliver took pity on him.

"Unless I'm mistaken," he said with a sigh, "Robert believes that the aeroplane the Barthez Battalions were supposed to be on was deliberately delayed."

Johnny snorted, his whole face radiating disbelief.

"It might help convince the pair of you if I informed you that the Egyptian billionaire who was responsible for the building of the stadium _and_ sat in the meeting that decided on Egypt as one of the hosts for the Worlds - so very influential, very rich, very fond of 'blading - is also one of the executives of Cairo International Airport."

"Coincidence," Johnny said uneasily.

"They said their flight was delayed by two days, didn't they?" Robert persisted.

Reluctantly, Oliver nodded.

"Then why on earth did an aeroplane with that exact flight number touch down two hours ago?"

Only one day later, Oliver realised. So they would have missed it again.

"Who cares?" he said sharply. "They're here now. Now get out of the kitchen and send Piddlesworth in. I need him to place an order for more cooking chocolate."

It was banal and he knew it, but Robert, and Johnny, after an appropriate jab that made him blush and swear ("Who are _you_ staying for, Johnathan?"), recognised the icy turmoil that was twisting in his chest and left him alone.

Could he really afford to be at the centre of another media firestorm?

* * *

So, what's Mathilda's habit? xD And is Oli actually gay? *evil laughter* And bless Johnny. He's so embarrassed.

Hope you like this chapter; all opinions, comments and criticisms welcome!

xIlbx


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